


Have Yourself a Whelpy Little Winter Veil

by KatieSkarlette



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Common Cold, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Parent-Child Relationship, Past Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-10
Updated: 2015-01-10
Packaged: 2018-03-06 22:34:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3150803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KatieSkarlette/pseuds/KatieSkarlette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wrathion's first holiday season is spent at Ravenholdt with Fahrad.  Now if only he could stop sneezing long enough to celebrate...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Yourself a Whelpy Little Winter Veil

**Author's Note:**

> Contains references to Fahrad/Nyxondra, and the former grieving for the latter.

Bitterly cold air swept over Hillsbrad the week before Winter Veil.  The rogues of Ravenholdt delayed some of their missions in favor of staying indoors where it was warm.

However, it was not warm enough for at least one resident of the manor.

Fahrad couldn't find the Black Prince in any of the common rooms, so he checked their bedroom.  All the quilts and sheets from his bed had been dragged in front of the fireplace, piled up around the box of blankets that the whelp normally slept in.

"My prince?" the rogue said, getting down on one knee to investigate.  He lifted up a corner of the top blanket and peeked underneath.   More blankets.  He peeled back that layer, and still found only wool.

"I can't get warm," came a muffled voice from somewhere underneath the mound.

Fahrad's brow furrowed in concern.  He kept digging through the blankets until he found Wrathion curled up near the bottom of the box, shivering.

"Cover me back up," the whelp whined, raising one shaky paw to grab at the nearest blanket.

"In a moment, my prince," Fahrad said quietly.   He laid a hand over the tiny dragon's back, and his frown deepened.   "You're awfully cold."

"That's what I've been telling you," he snapped.

"You must have caught a chill.  That's not good at your age.  How do you feel, besides cold?  You sound congested."

"My nose is stuffy, and I ache."

Fahrad shook his head and scooped the whelp up in his arms.   "Not good," he muttered.

Wrathion immediately snuggled against his chest, grateful for his body heat.

Fahrad hesitated, then said, "Keep your eyes closed for a minute."

Wrathion obeyed.

The rogue took a deep breath and exhaled over him.  It wasn't flame breath--not quite--but it was like the gust of air from opening an oven.

The whelp sighed in pleasure.

Fahrad inhaled and repeated the treatment twice.   "There.  How's that?"

"That felt wonderful," he gasped.  "But I'm still cold."  As if to prove it, he shivered.

"Hmm."

Wrathion opened his eyes and looked up at his guardian with a frightened expression.  If Fahrad was concerned enough to risk outing himself as a dragon, whatever was wrong with him had to be serious.  "What is it?" he asked.

"Just a chill," Fahrad said with a forced smile.   "We'll have to keep you warm until it runs its course."

A tickling sensation crept up Wrathion's nose, and he grimaced.   "Ah--  Aaah--"

Fahrad quickly turned to the fireplace and held the whelp out so his face was aimed toward the grill.

"ACHOO!"  Wrathion pitched forward with a thunderous sneeze, and a jet of flame shot out of his mouth.  Thanks to Fahrad's quick thinking, nothing caught fire.

"What was _that_?" the whelp asked, eyes wide with surprise.

"That, my prince, was a sneeze.  It happens sometimes when you're sick.  Mortals only expel air and mucus, but dragons...well, you saw."

"Oh."

Fahrad pulled a chair over and sat down right in front of the fireplace.  He gathered up a few of the warmer blankets from the pile on the floor and wrapped up Wrathion in a cocoon.  He settled back in the chair with the whelp tucked snugly against his chest.  "Try to get some sleep, my prince."

"I don't feel well," he whined.

"I know," the rogue said softly, patting his back.   "I'd make it better if I could, but I'm afraid only time will help."

Wrathion shivered despite his body heat, the layers of blankets, and the proximity of the fireplace.  Chirps of distress came from his throat.

"There, there."  Fahrad held him tighter and made soothing noises.  "It's all right."  He kept rubbing the whelp's back through the layers of blankets.

Wrathion drifted off to sleep listening to the rogue's heartbeat.

 

* * *

Because Fahrad could not sit and cuddle him around the clock, and because his sneezes set several blankets ablaze, it was decided that it would be best if Wrathion stayed in the fireplace until he felt better.  Fahrad shoveled the ashes into a soft pile for him to lay on, and kept the supply of firewood topped off.   Wrathion slept much of the time, curled around a log so that the flames licked across his scales.  Still, he did not feel warm.

On the third day, he stopped shivering constantly and felt his appetite perk up.

"I think you're through the worst of it," Fahrad said with a pleased smile as he set a venison flank at the edge of the fireplace.

Wrathion crawled forward and sank his teeth into the meat with more enthusiasm that he had shown since falling ill.  "I'm feeling a lot better today," he said with his mouth full.

"You should still take it easy for today.  As long as you're still sneezing, you've got to stay in the fireplace."

"I know," the whelp said with a pout.  "I said I was sorry about the curtains."

Fahrad grinned fondly and shrugged.  "It was probably time to replace those old things, anyway."

Wrathion gave a guilty cough and continued eating.

"The important thing is, you should be well enough to join everyone for the celebration of Winter Veil tomorrow."

"Is that tomorrow?" he asked with surprise.   "Hmm.  Time flies when you're feeling terrible.  Remind me again exactly what it's all about.  Some dwarven feast day?"

Fahrad sat down in the nearest chair.  "It started with the dwarves but nowadays most of the mortal races celebrate it."

"What about dragons?"

The rogue thought for a moment, absently stroking his beard.   "Dragons don't normally observe the holiday, but...  There no harm in joining in when those around you are celebrating."

"I see."  Wrathion swallowed a mouthful of venison and looked up with a frown.  "Part of that celebration involves exchanging gifts, does it not?"

"It does, yes."

"I don't have anything to give anyone.  If I had thought about it a few weeks ago I could have crafted blades or gems for everyone, but now there isn't time."

"Don't worry about it, my prince.  No one will expect anything from you, at your age."

Wrathion looked slightly perturbed at the reminder of his youth.  He knew he was less than a year old.  Did he have to be reminded of it all the time?  It wasn't like he could _help_ it.  "But it's a gift exchange.  If I don't give anything, I won't receive anything, either.   Right?"

"Not necessarily.  At Winter Veil you're supposed to give gifts to those you care about:  friends, family members, that sort of thing.   I wouldn't be surprised if something showed up for you under the tree."

"What tree?"

"The Winter Veil tree.  Smudge just went out and cut down a little fir yesterday.  It's in the main room downstairs."

Wrathion tore the last scraps of meat off the deer bone.   "I don't understand why killing a tree and dragging it indoors where it obviously doesn't belong is part of a holiday."

Fahrad chuckled.  "I'm not sure why, either, my prince, but that's how it's done.  And you have to follow the customs if you want Greatfather Winter to leave you a gift."

Wrathion paused in chewing long enough to tilt his head curiously at him.  "Who?"

"According to mortal legends, Greatfather Winter is a magical figure--some say he was one of the Titans, or their servants--who visits good children at Winter's Veil and leaves them presents."

"Is there really such a person?" Wrathion asked with clear skepticism.

There was a distant cast to Fahrad's eyes, and after a moment he said, "I wouldn't know.  I've never exactly been what you'd call 'good.'"

"Oh."  Wrathion thought for a few seconds, then gave a surprisingly shy smile.  "You're good to me."

Fahrad inhaled sharply.  "Th-thank you, my prince," he stammered, avoiding eye contact.  He rose from his chair, picked up the now-meatless bone from the floor, and headed for the door.  "Now rest up so you'll feel even better for tomorrow."

 

* * *

 

Sleep was elusive for Fahrad that night.  He sat, leaning against the headboard of his bed, and stared into the fireplace where the Black Prince lay.  The whelp was snoring quietly, curled up between two flaming logs.  He hadn't sneezed at all since Fahrad came upstairs to go to bed, so hopefully after a good night's sleep he'd be up for the holiday festivities in the morning.

Fahrad had never spent Winter Veil with any of his family before.  The routine he and Nyxondra had kept for decades had him visiting her in the early spring, midsummer, and late fall.  It was better that way due to the weather, and since dragons didn't usually celebrate this particular holiday it didn't really matter if they were together at midwinter.

They would still communicate through the earth, as they did throughout the year.  Once they had made dark jokes about how Greatfather Winter would never visit their offspring anyway.  Only _good_ children were worthy of such gifts, and with the Old Gods murmuring in their minds black dragons were surely disqualified.

The thought of his deceased mate always made a lump of grief congeal in his chest, but tonight the pain was especially acute.  He really had been living as a mortal too long, if his emotions were heightened by their holidays.  He recalled how hard Winter Veil had been for Winstone the first year after his father died.  The human had told him that grief always seemed worse around the holidays, and now Fahrad was experiencing it first-hand.

"Oh, Nyx," he breathed so quietly that Wrathion would not have been able to hear, even if he was awake.  Then, keeping his thoughts silent, he added, _I'd give anything to have you here, but since you're not...help me to do right by him._ Tears blurred the firelight, and he closed his eyes until they stopped welling up.

"No!"

Fahrad jolted forward, shaken from his reverie by the cry.

"No, no, stay away," the whelp whined, his voice slurred with sleep.   "Please!  Don't!"

The rogue tossed off his blankets and went to the fireplace.

Wrathion was squirming in terror, his tiny claws scratching gouges out of the firewood.  "No, please!" he wailed.

Fahrad rolled up the sleeves of his nightshirt to avoid the wool starting on fire, then reached into the flames to pick up the whelp.  The extreme heat didn't seem to bother him as fire danced against the bare skin of his arms.   "My prince, wake up," he said.  "You're having a nightmare."

The whelp gave a wordless wail of fear, thrashing his limbs and tail.

Fahrad gently shook him, brushing soot off his scales.   "Wrathion!"

He shuddered and opened his eyes, looking around in a panic.   "Help!" he gasped.

Heedless of the ash that still covered much of the small dragon, Fahrad tucked the trembling whelp under his chin.  "It's okay, Wrathion.   It was a dream."

The prince rubbed sleep and soot from his eyes, then latched onto Fahrad's shirt with desperation.  "Father!"

The breath caught in Fahrad's throat.  Had he had another vision?  Did he know?

"My father was here," Wrathion continued.   "He was after me!  There was fire everywhere, and lava!  I couldn't escape!"

Fahrad dared to exhale then, sitting down on the edge of the bed as he patted the whelp's back.  "Ssh, it's all right.  It was just a nightmare, probably brought on by sleeping in the flames."

"I was so scared," he whimpered.

Fahrad swallowed and grabbed a blanket to wrap around him.   "It's all right, my prince," he said quietly.  Once the whelp was bundled in the blanket, he held him snugly against his shoulder.  "I promise, your father will never hurt you.  Not as long as I have anything to say about it."

Blind to the true meaning behind the rogue's words, Wrathion was nonetheless comforted.  He clung to Fahrad's shirt as if it were a mountain climber's lifeline, and only after five minutes of being rocked and shushed did he stop trembling.

 

* * *

Morning found Grand Master Fahrad slumped against a pair of pillows at the head of his bed with his arms around a bundle of blankets.  Barely visible among the tangled fabric was a small dragon's snout, which now yawned.

"Fahrad?  Fahrad, wake up, it's Winter Veil!" Wrathion said, jabbing the rogue in the shoulder with his claws.

He twitched and groaned before opening his eyes.

"Can I go downstairs and see if there's anything under the tree?"

Fahrad looked down into the eager whelp's red eyes and smiled.   "Let me get dressed first, and we'll go together."

A few minutes later, the residents of Ravenholdt were startled by a little black blur rocketing down the stairs.  "Look at all this!" Wrathion gasped, flying in circles to take it all in.  Greenery was draped over the railings, gold candle holders lined the mantle, and chips of crystal dangled from the ceiling.  There was a fir tree in the middle of the main common room, festooned with chains of colored paper, strings of popcorn, and shiny baubles.

"Merry Winter Veil, Prince Wrathion," said Simone.   The greeting was repeated by Myrokos, Smudge and the rest of the rogues gathered around.  The table was barely visible under a wealth of food:  cookies, cakes, candies, tarts, rolls and all manner of drinks.

Fahrad leaned against the mantle and could not stop a wide grin from taking over his face as he watched Wrathion exploring.

"Look under the tree, wee prince," Smudge called.   "I think Greatfather Winter brought somethin' with yer name on it!"

"Really?"  The whelp dived down and rummaged through the packages wrapped in bright paper.  He gave an overjoyed squeak and seized a flat box covered in green paper.  "To the Black Prince, from Myrokos!" he read from the tag.

The blood elf perked up and watched as Wrathion shredded the wrapping paper with his claws and tore open the box.  

"It's a book!" he cried happily, as if the subject matter was less important than the mere fact that it was something new to read.   " _Pandaren:  Myth or Truth?_   Ooh, I've never read anything about Pandaren before!"

Myrokos smiled.  "That's a rare volume.  I had to go through a contact in Ratchet to get it."

"Thank you!" Wrathion beamed.  He shifted into his human form to better turn the pages, and seemed content to sit and read for the moment.

Carlo got up from the table and handed two bundles to Fahrad.   "Something for you and the prince," the human said.

Fahrad raised an eyebrow in surprise.  He tore off the paper and found a thick, wide scarf made of dark green and brown wool.  "That will come in handy.  Thanks."

"Too bad you didn't have one last winter.  Maybe you wouldn't have gotten pneumonia," Simone said in a motherly tone.

"Yeah, yeah," Fahrad sneered, as if he'd heard such admonitions too many times before.

Wrathion was so engrossed in his book that he didn't even notice what the others were saying until Fahrad dropped the second package in his lap.

"Here," he said.  "From Carlo."

"Ooh!"  Wrathion set the book aside and tore open the bundle.  "It's a...tiny sweater?" he said in confusion, holding up a dark gray garment that looked more suited for a doll than a human.

"Not for that form, of course," Carlo teased.   "But I know you dragons get chilly at this time of year, so...I commissioned a little old lady in Southshore to knit that for you."

Wrathion obligingly poofed back into his true body and fumbled with the sweater.  He had never worn clothes in dragon form before, and his claws snagged in the wool.

Fahrad knelt down to help him, and soon he was snugly fitted in the fuzzy sweater.

"Oh," he said appreciatively, holding out his arms to get a good look at it.  "My, that _is_ rather cozy.  Thank you, Carlo.  That was very thoughtful."

Wrathion also received a jar of herbal cream from Simone that she claimed would prevent his scales from drying out in the cold weather, a book of dwarven legends from Smudge, a book on swordsmithing from Winstone, shiny gems from many of the other rogues who knew how much he liked such things, and a toy dragon made by the gnomes Zazzo and Zan that spit sparks when the button on its back was pressed.

When everyone had opened their gifts and the floor under the tree was bare, some of the rogues drifted off to their own tasks while others attacked the table full of sweets.  Wrathion laid on his belly in front of the fire place, arranging his new gemstones in different patterns on the floor.

He looked up in surprise as a human hand laid another wrapped package in front of him.  "Must have missed this one.  It was stuck way under the tree," Fahrad said quietly.  He sat down beside him and waited for him to open it.

The whelp's face lit up happily as he grabbed the small box.   "To Wrathion, from...Greatfather Winter?  He _did_ bring me something!"  He shredded the red-and-white striped wrapping paper and opened the container within.  "Oh my," he breathed, lifting out an ornate gold ring set with what appeared to be a black stone.  "Lovely!  And there's a note!"  He unfolded the scrap of parchment as best he could with his draconic paws.  "Dear Wrathion," he read aloud.  "This ring contains a chip of scale from--"  He gave a quiet gasp, and when he continued his voice was more subdued.  "Your dear mother, Nyxondra.  Although unfortunately you can never meet her, this way a part of her will be with you always.  Signed, Greatfather Winter."

Fahrad laid a hand on the whelp's back as he gazed up at him with wide eyes.

"Can this really be...what it says?" Wrathion whispered.

"Don't question the magic of Winter Veil, my prince," Fahrad said quietly.  "Strange, special things happen this time of year."

Wrathion blinked back the shine of tears from his eyes and clasped the ring to his chest.  "I will treasure it.  Thank you."

"Thank Greatfather Winter," Fahrad said with a wink, patting his back once more before standing up and heading for the refreshment table.

Wrathion shifted into his human guise and slipped the ring onto his finger.  It would never leave his hand.

* * *

 

It was nearly midnight when Fahrad entered the bedroom to find the Black Prince had returned to sleeping in his regular box of blankets in front of the fireplace.  His gifts were stacked up beside the box, and the book on Pandaren lay open as if he'd been reading it when he fell asleep.  He wore his new sweater, but Fahrad carefully tucked an extra blanket over him just in case.

Wrathion did not stir when the blanket came to rest over him, so Fahrad took the opportunity to simply observe him for a moment.  A faint smile slowly spread across his face as he watched the small dragon's steady breathing.  He knelt and placed a light kiss on the whelp's forehead, his lips barely brushing against his scales.

"Happy Winter Veil, my boy," he murmured.

Wrathion slept on, snug and warm, and at least for that night, only pleasant dreams entered his head.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read my Fahrad/Nyxondra fic, "A Long Flight Home," that reference to Fahrad needing a scarf after catching pneumonia last winter will seem extra significant!


End file.
